Three good friends of mine were about to leave the DP Camp in Germany to migrate to Australia.

One was an Hungarian Doctor of Philosophy, a recognized authority on existentialist schools of philosophy; second — a Latvian — an able surgeon with a well-known name; the third — a Lithuanian — an Agriculturist.

They had signed a contract with the Australian Selection Commission, and were now going to this remote land as simple labourers, whose freedom was to be restricted for the next two years.

When they returned from the interview with the Australian Selection Officer, we spent an evening together, discussing possible implications of the two year contract.

"Why do you consider our contract being an unpleasant restriction of our freedom?" asked the Doctor of Philosophy. "I take it from a different point of view. I appreciate this possibility of living two years among Australians as a valuable opportunity to learn English; in two years I certainly shall speak English not worse than my own language, and then it will be much easier for me to get a suitable employment there."

"Surely," added the Agriculturist, "and, besides, there is no doubt that people, going as contract workers to Australia, will be employed there in accordance with their qualifications. I do not expect, of course, that I shall be given a position as an Agriculturist, and you, my friends, those of a Surgeon, or a University Professor, but there is no doubt that everybody will be given a job at least within the limits of his qualifications. Australian authorities will certainly put me on a farm, my friend Doctor in a university and my friend Surgeon into a hospital. So, when our contract time is over, we shall have, besides a decent knowledge of English, also a good idea of how the professional differences could be dealt with. Isn't it true, my friends?"

"Of course, it is," said the Surgeon. "Besides, nobody obliges us to stay in Australia forever. We can leave that country in future, if we wish to do so. lf, however, we do leave Australia, we shall at least, do so with a perfect English, and then the whole world will be open to us."

Soon they departed, full of optimism. Their last words to me were: "If in two years we speak English worse then Shakespeare used to do, we will be ready to eat up your shoes at any time and place."

After some time I got a letter from the Doctor of Philosophy. He wrote to me from a Migrant Reception Centre in Australia.

"There are, of course, only migrants in this camp, except for the top members of the Administration," he wrote. "Therefore I miss the opportunity to speak English here in the same way as I did it in our DP Camp in Germany. But it doesn't matter: soon I shall be appointed to a job, and then, living among Australians, I hope to master English in a short time. My new work (about the "Freedom of Will") I am definitely going to write in English. I think I shall start writing in a year's time and by then I hope to be totally at home with this language."

So wrote my friend the Doctor of Philosophy from Australia. In due time a letter arrived from the Surgeon, too.

He wrote that they wished to send him to a timber mill somewhere in a forest. He protested, explaining that such a rough work would make his fingers stiff, depriving him of the ability to perform surgical operations in the future. Besides, he needed to learn English; therefore, it was necessary for him to work and live among Australians. Attention was given to his request, and he was promised to be appointed to a job more or less connected with his profession.

The Agriculturist also didn't forget me. A short time before my own departure to Australia I got a letter from him. He wrote that he had asked the Employment Office of the Reception Centre to appoint him to some farm, because his desire was to get aquainted with Australian agriculture —with the aim to establish in the future his own experimental farm. He made this request, of course, only to make the matter absolutely certain; even without any request it was clear that he, as an Agriculturist, would be directed into the country. As far as the language was concerned, there were English classes in the Reception Centre, which all newcomers had to attend, but one could not learn a great deal of English there. He was therefore forced to wait until he was appointed to a job for any real opportunity to learn English.

Then I myself left for Australia, but as I happened to get into another Reception Centre I didn't meet my friends. I tried, of course, to contact them, and did my best to find out their whereabouts, but it was in vain. I failed to contact them, and they disappeared from my life as if they were dead. So, during my whole contract time I did not hear anything of them.

One hot summer day — it was about Christmas time, — I walked along one of the main streets of Melbourne, where I was forced to spend a day and night awaiting my train to Adelaide.

While walking along the street, I suddenly heard a loud bleating behind me. "What is the matter? How could a ram happen to be roaming amidst the city of Melbourne?" I thought, turning myself. And whom do you think I saw? I saw my friend, the Doctor of Philosophy, who was hurrying along the overcrowded street, bleating like a real ram. Naturally I was very glad to see him. He, of course, was none the less pleased.

"But what has happened to you, my friend? Why do you bleat like a sheep?" I asked.

"Did I really bleat like a sheep again?" wondered the Doctor of Philosophy. "O, it is terrible! But you will understand. Let us go into the nearest pub and have a jug of beer, — we must celebrate our happy meeting, — and I shall tell you my sad story."

We entered the pub and ordered some beer.

"I hope you have learned a good deal of English in the meantime," I assumed, lifting my glass, for I noticed that he seemed to have half forgotten the German language, which was our common language in Germany.

"I wish I had," he said with loud, melancholic bleating. "Now I realty speak English worse than at the time of my arrival in Australia. And, what is even worse, I almost forgot in the meantime my own Hungarian language."

"How is it possible?" I couldn't understand. "How can someone forget his own language unless going over to a foreign tongue?"

"My friend," began the Doctor of Philosophy, "you will see that all is possible under the moon, especially in this country. But listen! I am going to tell you all about it. From the Reception Centre, where I stayed for a short time after my arrival in Australia, I was appointed to a job at Boomnarravarra."

"Where is this place — Narravarraboom?" wondered I.

"Boomnarravarra," he corrected. "I, too, didn't know at fist where it was. I thought that it was a small town somewhere in the country. But Boomnarravarra turned out to be a remote sheep station. The nearest small town was more than 200 miles away. What a job do you think I got there? I became a shepherd. Do you imagine, a Doctor of Philosophy — a shepherd? Ah, let us have another drink! Yes, they made me a shepherd. They gave me a gun, a horse and several dogs, and sent me to look after a herd about 50 miles from the station. There were many thousands of sheep, and we kept moving from one pasture to another, always staying a great distance from the station. I was the only shepherd and I spent all my days and nights among my sheep in a wild country for two long years. My only companions were my dogs and my horse. I rarely saw a human being. Once a fortnight a lorry came from the station bringing me food. My rare days off and my annual leave I spent on the farm among jackeroos, but I could only learn bad words from them. So I lived among my sheep, as I have already said, during all my contract time and so it happened that, instead of learning English, I began finally to forget my own language. And as you may see yourself, the only tongue I have learned is that of the sheep."

At the same moment the door of the pub opened and a man entered. Simultaneously a loud sound of hiss like that of a big snake, resounded in the room. The barman and a few customers, who were in the pub at the moment, quickly climbed on the top of the bar. "A giant snake has sneaked into the pub," everyone thought in a horror.

Then all noticed that the hissing sound came from the mouth of the man, who just had entered the pub. To our great surprise we saw that he was our good common friend — the Surgeon.

"Sorry," he said when the first exclamations of astonishment and delight were over, "sorry indeed, but I cannot help it. In moments of absentmindedness I hiss like a snake. It is the result of my two years' dealing with snakes."

And he told us his strange story.

In the Reception Centre they wished, at first, to send him to a forest to fell trees, but following his objections they had agreed that a forest was not a proper place for him, and that cutting trees was not a suitable job for him either. They understood that as a surgeon he had to have a job akin to his profession, because his fingers were to be spared for a better future. So they sent him to a snake farm which was a dozen miles from a little country town. His job there was to skin snakes. Besides himself there was one other man, who was an Australian. This Australian was his boss and his only companion, but this only source of English was deaf-mute. So there was no possibility to learn English, and as the only voice he heard there day and night was the hissing of snakes, it happened that finally he almost forgot his native language and instead of having learned English, he began hissing like a snake.

Finishing this story our friend swallowed his beer and gave out a mighty hiss.

"Don't be afraid," said the barman to the customers, "it isn't a snake. The New Australians in the corner are speaking their native tongue. No doubt, there is a good deal of hissing and bleating in their Baltic language as you see," he added philosophically "but otherwise it is quite a fine tongue, isn't it?"

The same moment the door opened again, and a new customer walked in.

All three of us cheered: the new customer was our common friend the Agriculturist.

"I hope that you at least have learned how to speak proper English in Australia instead of hissing and bleating!" I said without any introduction.

"I don't know anything about bleating and hissing," he answered smiling. "But as a matter of fact I have almost forgotten my own language in Australia, but I have not learned English instead."

"But what have you learned then?" I wondered.

"O, it is a silly story," was the answer. "Do you remember that I asked to be appointed to a job on a farm? Instead of that they sent me to Melbourne to repair pavements. All members of our gang, except me, were Ukrainians, who did not speak English at all. As Ukrainian was the only language they spoke, I was forced to learn it to get on with them. So I have learned Ukrainian, not English, in Australia."

"Ukrainian?" we all wondered. "What an irony of fate!"

Then I remembered something.

"My friends," I said, "I think it is time to have our supper."

They loudly agreed.

"Well, what are we going to eat tonight?" they asked eagerly.

"Shoes," I answered. "my shoes! As you, my friends, obviously speak English worse than Shakespeare used to do, you are going — according to your promise — to eat up my shoes. Would you like to eat them fried, cooked or raw?"

Instead of a direct answer the Doctor of Philosophy let me hear a shy bleating of confusion, the Surgeon hissed like a snake on whose tail somebody had stepped, and the Agriculturist swore like an Ukrainian peasant.

David Marquis

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